Rating: 4/5 Stars

​Jenn Reese’s A Game of Fox & Squirrels dances gracefully between whimsy and wisdom, seamlessly blending childhood innocence with the weight of real-world challenges. This enchanting narrative not only tickles the imagination but also stirs the soul.
​
After a family tragedy, eleven-year-old Sam and her sister Caitlin find themselves whisked away to rural Oregon to live with their Aunt Vicky. Sam’s skepticism about their new life hangs heavy like the mist on a Pacific Northwest morning, but everything changes with a mysterious gift from Aunt Vicky: a card game called “A Game of Fox & Squirrels.” The line between reality and fantasy begins to blur when Ashander the fox leaps from the cards into real life, promising Sam a wish if she can find the mythical Golden Acorn.

The inhabitants of Reese’s world are vividly portrayed, each character with their own quirks and charms. From Aunt Vicky’s peculiar chicken obsession to Cedar the squirrel’s insatiable appetite for acorn meat tarts, Reese brings them to life with remarkable brevity.

While the story brims with talking animals and magical quests, it also delves into the weighty theme of domestic violence. Drawing from her own experiences, Reese delicately illuminates the possibility of breaking free from the chains of a toxic past. Through Sam’s eyes, readers embark on a journey through trauma, loss, and healing, elevating A Game of Fox & Squirrels from a mere fairy tale to a profound exploration of family and resilience.

Written by Lauryn Smith

​Reaching the next stop on the my-life-through-books tour required me to trek through some muddy waters. No, quicksand. Maybe lava?
 
You might think that the new shelter-in-place era we now live in would be prime time to work on personal projects and accomplish non-work-related goals. Well, not when you are a recovering perfectionist. Self-doubt, fear of failure, and questioning whether you, of all people, have anything to say that is worth hearing all make procrastination quite appealing. Amirite?
 
But Sam Laura Brown has re-inspired me to overcome my subconscious self-sabotaging habits, at least in terms of blogging. In fact, I thought I might switch things up beginning with this post and instead of merely reviewing a book, also reflect on how it applies to my life, what it meant to me personally, and so on. It may get a bit stream-of-conscious-y. Who knows. Ready? Here goes.
 
Let’s start by talking about Zits. (I could so easily make a joke about stress breakouts here but shall refrain.) Zits is the main character in Sherman Alexie’s novel “Flight.” He is a biracial teenager with Native American ancestry living in the Pacific Northwest. What’s more, he is a self-described “time-traveling mass murderer.”  

Written by Lauryn Smith

​My interest in John Irving’s writing began after I read his award-winning “The World According to Garp” in high school. I promise to give a review of “Garp” as soon as I replace my lost copy, which met its fate in a puddle of water. (Trust me, though, you must read it!) For now, let’s talk about “A Prayer for Owen Meany,” Irving’s all-time best-selling novel. The fictional story is deep, poignant, complexly germane and truly captivating.
 
The titular character, Owen, is an intelligent, small-statured, shrill-voiced, 11-year-old son of a quarryman. He grows up in Gravesend, New Hampshire, with his best buddy John Wheelwright, whose family comes from old money. John narrates the twists and turns of their relationship, from the Little League baseball game during which Owen’s foul ball kills John’s mother to Owen’s death, a divinely crafted occurrence that Owen adamantly believes he has foreseen. This novel is one of predestined heroism and a boy determined to curate his life experiences in preparation for his final act. (The vagueness concerning Owen’s fate is necessary—spoilers! I can say, however, that in his role as the Ghost of Christmas Future for a production of “A Christmas Carol,” he inexplicably sees his name and date of death on Scrooge’s gravestone, which fortifies his ideas about his purpose and his link with God.) The majority of the story takes place throughout the 1950s and 1960s, so readers get to follow Owen and John as they transition from days composed of TV viewing and rounds of armadillo hide-and-seek (read the book to see what I mean – it is a whole thing) to days composed of collegiate activities and wartime rhetoric.
 
Several themes are unmissable. Perhaps the most notable motif that Irving explores if that of friendship. (Example “aww” moments include 1) the trustful sharing of treasured baseball cards between Owen and John and 2) Owen’s voluntarily repeating grade nine when he learns that John was held back, all so that they might attend Gravesend Academy together.) Also prominent are the concepts of religion and faith as well as the corresponding concept of doubt. In addition, Irving cleverly integrates insights into the stateside turmoil associated with the Vietnam War. Though these topics hold the story together, they are arguably tangential to a larger theme, that is, the loss of one’s childhood and the beautiful tragedy of maturing.

Written by Lauryn Smith

Undeterred after reading Sara Gruen’s unassuming “At the Water’s Edge,” I took up “Ape House.” Now that I am done reading it, I wonder if Gruen might be a one-hit wonder. (Don’t get me wrong. Her writing style is lovely. “Water for Elephants” is, and probably always will be, one of my favorite books.) As much as I hate to say it, “Ape House” left me dizzy, and not in a good way.
 
“Ape House” is a contemporary dual-track story that begins well enough. Readers are introduced to John Thigpen, a journalist in Philadelphia who is writing a story on the six bonobos at the Great Ape Language Lab in Kansas. These particular apes are remarkable because they can use American Sign Language and computer software to reason, communicate and form deep relationships. John travels to meets the apes and lab staff, including Isabel Duncan, a scientist who regards the bonobos as family. On the night of the interview, Isabel and the apes are the victims of an explosion at the lab. The apes escape unharmed but are whisked away by an unknown force to an unknown location. Isabel, on the other hand, is tragically injured. During her long recovery, she makes it her goal to retrieve the apes to ensure their welfare. With the help of a disjointed ensemble, Isabel discovers that the apes were sold to Ken Faulks, a renowned pornographer. Yep, you read that right. This point, barely halfway into the book, is when the story becomes irritating. Gruen chooses to satirize human life by placing the bonobos in the hands of an adult film connoisseur, who in turn places the apes in a house full of cameras that broadcast live in the name of entertainment, considered such because of the bonobos’ inherent sexual inclinations. 

Written by Lauryn Smith

​You probably know by now that Donna Tartt is one of my favorite authors. “The Secret History” and “The Goldfinch” are both easily on my list of top 10 favorite books. Now I am here to discuss “The Little Friend.” I will not be adding “The Little Friend” to my top 10 list, but it is still worth reading… and then reading again.
 
In this work of fiction, Tartt takes us to the American South. In Alexandria, Mississippi, a young, headstrong girl named Harriet is determined to find justice for the unsolved murder of her older brother Robin, who on Mother’s Day 12 years earlier was found dead, hanging from a tree in his own front yard. Ever since that fateful day, Harriet’s family, particularly her mother Charlotte, has been despondent, and memories of Robin cast woeful shadows whenever they arise. Trouble ensues as Harriet and her faithful companion Hely home in on Danny, a member of the ne'er-do-well Ratliff family, whom they suspect of the crime.
 
Tartt uses these circumstances to illustrate the dichotomies of good and evil, innocence and guilt. Doing so through the lens of a child is a genius decision, as it also makes possible the detailing a person’s coming of age, which adds depth to Tartt’s efforts. The latter theme is tried and true, but Tartt imagines a wholly unique version of the tale, giving readers a flawed though entirely lovable and unexpected protagonist. 

Written by Lauryn Smith

Remember how I was just saying that it is possible for young adult novels to be both quirky and meaningful? (I recently reviewed one that was just… not.)
 
I now have proof. “Me and Earl and the Dying Girl” by Jesse Andrews is an awesome YA novel, one that is both entertaining and artful. It was even made into a movie recently. No, I have not seen the movie adaptation yet; I am abiding by the unspoken rule that you need to read a book before you see its movie. Now that I have read the book, I am all for seeing the motion picture; it is probably awesome, too.
 
The story is told from the perspective of Greg Gaines, a teenager dealing with the peril that is high school. His philosophy: be friendly to everyone, but make no friends. The logic is that if everyone knows just a little bit about you, they will generally like and accept you. Things are easier that way. The only person Greg defines as a friend is Earl, a gritty guy with a dirty mouth who lives by no rules. The boys’ shared interest is film, both the viewing of and making of. Together, they recreate all kinds of movies, most of which turn out comedic despite the intended genre.
 
All is well and good until one day Greg’s mom asks him to befriend Rachel, a childhood acquaintance who was recently diagnosed with leukemia. After some trial and error, Greg becomes Rachel’s welcome comedic relief. Despite his reluctance to let anyone see his films, Greg shares them with Rachel, who finds great joy in them. So much joy, that Greg and Earl vow to make a film about Rachel’s life.